Posts Tagged ‘creation

19
Apr
18

Apology to the Valiant Poets of this World

*****

Your hearts are bleeding in verse.  It’s your choice of language.  It’s easier than speaking in clear sentences, instead of telling the cold, hard truth.  I get it.  I speak in metaphors, sometimes, and they can boggle the sharpest minds.

It’s just…  And, I’ve said this many times, before.  I’m so sick of poetry.  I’m sick of my own metaphors and creative explanations when they only cloud the minds of those we want to reach.

It’s too easy for a casual reader to breeze by and approve or take a snapshot of something they understand only as their eyes can see/read it.  The creator might get a false sense of appreciation or achievement.

And, while I’d like to peel through so many onions and find the root of your messages, the task brings a little vomit into my mouth.

I used to write poetry in high school.  It might have been well written, but it was depressing, grim crap.  It was the product of a soul coming to terms with an empty social life and childhood.  It wasn’t very cathartic.  And, looking back, I wish I had stuck with the comical limericks about frogs.

So, forgive me if I slight you, dear poets of the world.  [Though one or two of you might be so lucky to have me grace your pages with my wit and even the depths of my heart.]  I just cannot stomach much poetry, anymore.  [Yet, there is so much of it here.]

Maybe one day you’ll reach this stage, too, when you finally get tired of putting lace and blood on pages, stop scrapbooking life and start ripping the hard, cold, raw material from your gray matter and clenching chests.  You’ll wipe away the mime makeup and expose your scars.

I still wear a mask here and other places.  But, that’s…well, it’s just reasonable defense, considering circumstances.  But, if you talk with me “like a real person,” you’ll get what you give…just maybe in a delayed fashion if I don’t warm up to you fast enough.

I’m not one who sees much value in the word “sorry.”  If you’re sorry, you make up for what you regret.  But, I’m saying it now just to let you know why I cannot say anything good about what you have to share…when I know, to some degree, you seek that approval.

I’m sorry I can’t digest much poetry.  And, right about now, I’m at the breaking point.  I’m full.

12
Oct
15

The Little Deja Vu Bell Tolls, Again and Again

*****

In the past few weeks…maybe two months?…I have been hearing the little deja vu bell, again.

I have been whipping up several designs for book covers and other projects with silhouettes.  And, certain ones just hit a certain note in my head, telling me I’ve made these before.  I can go so far into these thoughts that I hear and see a sibling talking to me about the files on my computer.  I am almost always in a position where I should be clearing space because the hard drive is too full.

So, I am thinking…are all these thoughts warning me of the near future?  Is it possible I am reliving a past version/lap of this life with better awareness of what’s ahead?  [I say this regardless of any previous mention.]

But, as I sit here now, going through some scrolls of blog posts, I find myself thinking about a particularly Halloween-y image I made yesterday and how vividly I can see my sister and I looking at it, wondering what good it will do.

Some days, it makes me want to cry or scream in a mad fit.  What is this I am experiencing?  And, what good will it do me?  [Or, what harm could it do?]  Some days I heed the warnings.  And, others, I question my sanity.

06
Oct
15

Women Are the Shijo Koji of My Art

*******

Why do I think of women so much?  And, why are thoughts of complete nudity and sex so offensive or discomforting?  I’ve discussed theories before.

But, after watching a little Japanese cooking segment, this came to me.  Perhaps, women are like “shijo koji,” Japanese rice exposed to koi enzymes for various cooking processes/dishes.  They are a versatile source of inspiration that add flavor to the pot of life…and, particularly, to many if not most of my artistic creations.  [I suppose, if I was a woman, I might say the same of men.  Personally, I don’t look at men the same way.  :)]

It seems women are a form of meditation for me.  I just have to insert the word into the bowl of water in my mind with an adjective, and all sorts of shapes, colors and patterns can appear.  I would like to focus on other subjects for my art; but women are infinitely diverse and intriguing.  Maybe if sparrows wore sweaters and boots, I’d give them a closer look.  😛

What of the sexual aspects?  Well, I AM a rather solitary guy (but not an asexual geek).  I think about women and sex often enough.  But, too much sex, like an excess of bacteria or salt with the shijo koji, spoils the “flavor” of all a woman has to offer.  She is more than a sex object.  In fact, I’d rather not think of the sex.  [But, it seems to radiate from other sources (like television and movies) and infect my thoughts.]  I also do not care for nude artwork.  That is something artists should do privately with those they love…and keep private…if they create nudes, at all.  And, if all you think about is sex, that gets boring…and it sounds risky of any number of infections and other ailments.  So, men, handle your shijo koji, women, in a variety of subtle ways.  Dress her up nice and speak sweetly when possible (not just to lure her out of her clothes).  But, feel free to express all emotions to diversify the spice of life she provides.

Just a random thought.  You can go on with your day, now.  And, try not to lose your appetites.  😛  We all have someone or something we desire to put on a pedestal or hang on our wall…or in our hearts.  🙂

Happy creating.  And, may divine inspiration guide you wisely.

********

28
Jul
14

The Art of Excess

 

On a milestone birthday in the depths of space, a budding artist (with a face full of bubbling, molten craters) opened her eyes and marveled at the new tools provided by her parents. The intense, singeing light of her father and the softer, enchanting glow of her mother came together to wish their daughter well in pursuit of happy growth and enhancement. Vowing to make them proud, the young orb took a deep breath and went to work.

Her early efforts produced a multitude of lifeforms both stationary and mobile. The former consistently worshipped her parents while the latter were free to experiment, giving all who watched a source of amusement. Father and mother were indeed pleased. Their smiles burst with a brilliant energy which could be seen from galaxies away.
“Go on, my child!” said the father. “Create more! It gives your mother and I such joy to see you paint your surface with these colors! One day you shall be the crown jewel of our domain!”

So, the child continued to create and age. But, every now and then, her father and mother would drift apart, leaving her in the cold of deep space to wonder if what she created was still worthy of praise. In a fit of sadness and frustration, she struck herself with a large rock, hoping to free some promising ideas from her already cracked skull. Instead, it erased her vision temporarily, wiping a large portion of the art from her surface. When her parents returned, a new motif had taken over their daughter.

“What’s this?!” gasped the father. “Such a drastic change! What has made you tear down what you already made and replace it with something new?!”

“Father, each time I turned around, you and Mother left me alone,” said the young artist with a sigh. “I did not feel your warmth at my back. I thought you no longer approved of my work.”

“Look how they behave differently when I draw closer in your father’s absence,” said Mother with her cheeks aglow as she separated from her mate. “You honor us with your talents, daughter. Go on. Continue creating. You are just beginning to grow.”

Despite her concern and flickering confidence, the artist did as she was told. Nothing she made gave her the joy she had seen in her parents’ faces. Again and again, she changed her canvas while expending her vital energy (which, at the time of her youth, seemed infinite), each time hoping the next visit of her parents would be happier than the last.

When they did return for her birthday, she had yet another surprise waiting for them. Gazing upon the new creation, Father blew flames to the far reaches of space and withdrew. His color paled from an ardent red-orange to a weaker yellow. “What in the great cosmos are those?! And, what are they doing to each other?!”

Tilting her head ever so slightly, his daughter said, “I have not decided what to call them, yet, as they keep changing on me. I am leaning toward naming them Humanity. What do you think, Mother?”

Though her mate was dismayed, mildly cross and tempted to scorch the young artist’s hide, Mother, impressed with the new lifeforms (which could adapt themselves more readily than any other), showed enthusiasm. “They are certainly unique and interactive.” She paused to look away when one fierce band of the fleshy rebels destroyed another, leaving a gruesome stain on the daughter’s cheek. Refraining from preaching about cleanliness, Mother added, “Keep at it, my child. But, do not be so hasty to destroy what you have made. Let it mature with you. You continue to grow in wisdom though experience. Some day, you will shine as bright as your mother or–maybe–your father.”

With those encouraging words, the still youthful artist returned to her labors, working with her latest creation to “enhance” her appearance. [Meanwhile, her parents ventured off in mounting disagreement.] As the years rolled by, the ever-mutable clay of “Humanity” grew in quantity and violence, gradually wiping away portions of her previous work. Just when it seemed like the restless, pale and balding creatures might destroy themselves and everything remaining with them, a new crop would appear to start a revolution. But, the lifeless remnants of the previous batch never seemed to fully disappear. The cosmic strength to absorb injury and clear away the messes made diminished. Eventually, after several expansive conflicts, the bewildering competition amassed heaps of debris on the heavenly creator’s face.

At the dawn of her next birthday, her parents displayed looks of horror. Lakes of toxic sludge and smoking mountains of heavy filth nearly covered every inch of their daughter’s skin. They could barely see her worrisome expression and hear her trailing voice as she pleaded, “Father! Mother! Help me! I have lost control! I am falling apart from within! Help me!”

But, they could do nothing short of wiping her from the cosmos. Reflecting upon her own potentially misguided wisdom, Mother wept. Father slapped himself for being so hasty and persistent in the pursuit of pride. In search of other worlds to litter and ravage, some of the daughter’s tiny parasites ventured deep into space with the ships she provided. Following the errant paths of the wasteful machines over their shoulders, the parents retraced the eons of their previous attempts at raising children and wondered how their neighbors, the Andromeda family, fared so well. [What did they truly know about their neighbors? And, did they need to snoop?]

                                                                           *******

“Surprise!” cheered her parents, stirring the young artist from her slumber. The latter rubbed her eyes and followed the visual cues of the former along the curves of her weathered frame. Though she had found herself drowning in darkness and despair only a moment ago, she was now glowing with a renewed sense of peace and a vigor. Gone were the mounds of death and destruction. Those tiny pests she had created were now working together as one happy community, no longer fighting over materials or each other. And, the older forms once thought doomed to extinction were now given their fair share of space to live as Humanity did.

“Happy birthday, my daughter,” said Mother with an earnest smile. “Just look at you, now. So grown-up. So mature. And, to think, a few eons ago, you were ready to throw yourself into the black hole because of some hideous eruption on your face.”

Her father, showing his age with the faintest tint of red in his thinning cheeks and forehead, added, “You have never looked lovelier than you do today, my child. You honor us both. And, look, our neighbors have brought you presents.”

The woozy artist squinted over her parents’ shoulders to see the handful of colorful visitors in the distance, each with tiny surprises headed her way. Neglecting to mention the former identity of the rock chosen as a meeting place, Mother and Father cleared the asteroid field to welcome the guests. Everyone had such a joyous time at the birthday party…

…Except for one tiny solar-powered ship carrying a lone green explorer who steered clear of all the commotion. He didn’t dare venture closer to those he could not yet understand. Instead, he continued his journey through space, watching the universe drift by as he decided what to do with the rest of his life.

 

 

~Writingbolt, 7-26-2014

14
Jul
14

The Next Time You Feel the Need to Ask, “Wouldn’t it be cool if…,”

…hold your tongue and consider the possible consequences/misuse of that thought. You’re as likely to contribute to crime and horrific punishment as you are to creating something new and exciting.

14
Jul
14

Whatever god created sexual intercourse…

…probably didn’t intend on it being bought and sold like chicken feed.

 

 

Tweet!

14
Jul
14

If Humans are Dr. Frankenstein…

…The internet and all the gadgets wired to obey it’s every command are the latest monster.

14
Jul
14

Creation Is Like a Bowl of Cherries

The beauty and sweetness of the fruit lasts only so long before the rotting begins. With good intentions often–if not always–come(s) horrible misuse and/or abuse.

After going on some great trip or winning some contest, have you ever met someone who wanted you to share the rewards (photos, souvenirs, a sample/taste if food is involved, etc.) sooner than you felt comfortable/willing? You might tell them to wait or–if you have no qualms about your friends/family turning on you–deny them their desired share until you decide how much you want to give and when. Now, you have the “freedom” to put it all out there for all to see (including some you don’t want to see). You tell yourself this will relieve the pressure of nagging hands/eyes and keep those you care about connected. But, what is everyone you don’t personally know doing with the same bounty of information? While you think the farm is free, you don’t own the land. And, any fence you might put up is only as good as its designer. Only the designer can put up a fence no one else can bypass (until someone figures out how to do just that).

If I’ve learned one thing about life from my exposure to the age of the internet (and all of its minions), it’s that just about anything (or everything?) that starts out as a good thing gets abused/misused until tabloids and TV anchors can’t get enough bad news out to the masses. [Whether the bad news is genuine or just hype to stir paranoia in the interest of consumption…is always a good question.]

The second thing I’ve learned is that no story or truth is as valid and worth hearing as the one from the source itself. Anything else is likely tainted with suspicion and/or foul intent. Yet, it’s difficult to reach/hear/see the truth when there are so many riled voices clamoring at once.

And, before there ever was an internet, I learned advertised reputations and all of the lovely things people stamp on the backs of covers (for example) in favor of the creator(s) are often wrong.

But, let’s get back to the matter of misusing what is intended to be an improvement. It’s like indulging in some form of food or drink–which initially tastes good–and then vomiting the inevitably foul bi-product or result of such action. [If you’ve ever had a hangover or found yourself with your face in a toilet bowl after consuming more alcohol than your weak stomach could handle, you get the drift.] If word gets out, if something becomes a fad/trend, it seems there’s almost always a chance it will carry trouble in its wake.

So, while the internet gives seemingly boundless freedom and inspiration to the billions on this planet (those who have access, anyway) to create to their heart’s content with the hopes of becoming a wealthy star (pending management by some foreign agent who will gladly take a cut of the profits for sitting within some proximity of you), this is reckless action bound to benefit a greedy, manipulative few rather than satisfy and improve the world. The “farmers” just made it easier for the “crops” to come to them with less labor. And, in the process, the masses risk losing their health, wealth and dignity/privacy…basically, their freedom (of life as it is granted either naturally or by a higher power). The old ways of abusing power simply have found a new mask to wear.

14
Jul
14

You Need to Get Lathed!

Have I told you the intense thrill I get from working with wood? I’m not talking about some run-of-the-mill joy you get from completing that dusty spice rack or bookshelf for your friend or family member. This thrill goes deeper than any man’s “lower appendage” can reach in the deepest of “woman wells.”

Yes. That’s right. If you know anything of sexual intercourse, you know the language I am speaking. You also know some version of the feeling. But, if I am not using the infamous tool of innuendo, am I seriously comparing “hot sex” to carpentry?

I am. There’s just one problem. Well, there’s more than one. But, I’m only focusing on one at the moment because more would probably blow both our “computer laundered” minds. [You know, how some articles of clothing get shrunk in the wash. There ya go. You got it. Right?] If I am not careful, my crafting could result in the creation of a birdhouse. I know it might sound crazy, but it’s true. I put myself to work for the thrill of it, and, suddenly, I’m staring at a birdhouse. But, I don’t want this.

If you ask me, there are already way too many birdhouses out there in the world. Heck. Birds are quite capable themselves of making nests in all sorts of places. Why do we need more?

So, to prevent this, I must wear special protection. And, if I share my skills with any women in this world, it seems vital that they too use protection lest they end up with a birdhouse they cannot fully enjoy. Unfortunately, the female version risks the function of internal organs with the potential for side effects spanning a lifetime. Luckily, more women than men seem content with finding a place in their lives for my unwanted sparrow shacks. I guess the risk of their lives seems less threatening than the loss/destruction of a birdhouse.

Knowing that protection was created by someone no more capable of invention than myself, it’s flawed at best. And, when the flaw reveals itself, guess what? You got it. I’m staring at yet another unwanted, unintended pigeon poop coop. These things are eating up my resources, including living space, and they’re starting to get on my nerves. But, I can’t give up the pursuit of that singular thrill. Can I?

If you’re tuning out or thinking I’m some sex-starved fool, dude (or dudette), you need to get lathed. Or, in other words, go file, drill, wrench, plumb, jack, plunger, pump, punch and/or hammer yourself. All it takes is for the fire of trending to spark a revolution.

If you’re going to get your hands dirty, do it without affecting the lives of others or be prepared for a surplus (or shortage) of robin roosts. Give a hoot; don’t contribute to the plagues of all mankind. Labor responsibly.

[In all seriousness as an artist, I prefer to work with pencil/pen and paper or clay, myself. But, to each their own.]

24
Jun
14

If I Created Everything That Entered My Imagination…

 

 

…I’d quickly run out of space and run the risk of exhausting the world’s resources. 

 

I have countless “seed” ideas for movies, books/stories, cartoons, bird houses….you name it.  Give me a niche that needs filling, and I’ll likely fill the gap with something refreshing/mind-blowing (provided you like what I invent).  But, I can’t see how I’d ever complete every project I think of all by myself…nor where I’d store them all.

I see plenty of talents creating larger and larger portfolios/galleries of work.  And, I can’t help wondering where they put it all.  How much it costs them.  And, who lovingly supports/accepts them and all their “clutter.”  What a different world that seems to be from what I’ve had to contend with…and how I now look at crafting/creating anything.  I look in a direction more practical and beneficial than I once did as a kid.  Yet, so many others seem free to be kids and create as they please without any fear of consequence or making the errors they consistently make.

Am I “old,” “wise” or something worse?




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